


To Bury a King

by smileybagel



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Brief Mentions of Book Canon, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief, Missing Funeral Scene, Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:33:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3178772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileybagel/pseuds/smileybagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The voices of the dwarves followed him all the way out of the mountain, each deep note resonating in his chest and making him feel like he was going to explode. It was too much, far too much for simple Hobbit from the Shire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Bury a King

The battle was won, and the fifth day after the battle was quickly coming to a close. The dwarves who arrived from the Iron Hills were still working to gather their dead as the Elves and Men did the same, while the Company of the now deceased Thorin Oakenshield began to clean and dress the bodies of their king and princes as best as they could. Balin, Dori, and Oin handled most of it, with Oin barking orders at others like Dwalin and Nori to gather whatever regal garbs they could find that were in good condition to dress their fallen leaders for their graves.

Bilbo lingered while they worked, his nerves fried and head still pounding from the noise of the battle. He kept his eyes on the ground mainly, only looking up when Bombur eventually convinced him to take a bowl of broth and eat. He accepted the soup with a weary smile and found himself a spot that was out of the way to sit and eat his food quietly. He was still in a state of disbelief, with everything that happened feeling to surreal to have actually taken place. However, Bilbo reminds himself, that he need only look in the tent where they were preparing Thorin and his nephews and the reality of what happened would once again come crashing down around him.

The hobbit sighed and stirred his broth before taking a spoonful into his mouth. He was too out of it to really notice the heat, but he knew he had foolishly burned his tongue and roof of his mouth. With a silent curse, Bilbo allowed the soup to cool a little more before he continued to eat. Around him, the other members of the company were eating bits of cram and bread as they hurried to help the Iron Hill dwarves with collecting their dead. Dwalin passed by him with a solemn nod, arms full of fine cloths, and Nori followed him, one large crown and two smaller circlets on his arms and bags of jewels in his hands. Bildo swallowed thickly, not wanting to think about who the garments and gems were for. It was no use anyway, his tears were dried up already, having cried and cried as he held Thorin during his last moments, and his throat was sore enough from screaming when someone tried to pry the fallen king from his grasp.

No, Bilbo thought, it wouldn't do anybody one lick of good if he allowed himself to cry once more. Instead, he finished his broth, took the bowl back to Bombur, and walked the outskirts of the makeshift camp they had erected to house the dead and wounded. He kept his hands in his pockets, one set of fingers clasped around his magic ring, and the other memorizing the shape and feel of his acorn. Both would be decent enough mementos of the journey, and the feather-light shirt of mithril he still wore underneath his clothes would serve nicely too, even if the memory of how he acquired it was spoiled by Thorin and his bout of irrational gold sickness. Bilbo sighed heavily and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the nasty chill that came about whenever he remembered Thorin in his moments of weakness.

When Bilbo came back to the tent housing Thorin, Balin was outside, looking like he was dead on his feet, his face ashen and pale with a sheen of sweat on his brow. Before Bilbo could approach him, Balin turned back towards the tent where a voice called out and disappeared back into the tent, only to reemerge moments later, followed by a procession of dwarves from the company, and...

Bilbo felt his heart drop to stomach. A wave of nausea swept over him and his body wouldn't stop trembling.

And Thorin, Fili, and Kili laid on stretchers carried by the Company, covered with white sheets. Any dwarrow who was nearby at the moment stopped in their tracks, eyes stuck on the figures of the company. Many of the dwarves bowed to the procession before following it into the Mountain, whispering in hushed Khuzdul. The Elves began to glide in as well, led by Thranduil and his son, and a good handful of the Men went too. Bilbo was glued to his spot until Bofur broke of the line to grab him and haul him up with the Company, where Bilbo had to do everything in his power to not retch as he walked next to the corpses of three of his dear friends and companions.

The walk to the now cleared and cleaned lower levels of the Mountain was long and quiet, only accompanied by the heavy footfalls of the dwarves and men, and near silent steps of the elves. Bilbo kept his eyes forward as they came to the graves of the past kings, which were large stone caskets that would sit above ground, just short of full mausoleums. Three new caskets sat in the center of the room, empty and waiting, with their stone lids by their sides. Bilbo could only guess that Dain had commissioned them after the battle, and had his dwarves work furiously until they were ready.

Quietly and with great care, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield laid the bodies of their fallen in the caskets, Thorin in the middle, Fili to his right, and Kili to his left. They lifted the white cloths from their forms and them aside, allowing Balin and Dwalin to place the smaller gems and jewels around the bodies. When they were finished, Thranduil stepped forward, an expression of regret and mourning decorating his face, with his hands cupped around the cursed Arkenstone.

Bilbo had to stop himself from running forward and smacking the stone out of the Woodland King's hands and then running off to drop it in the now rekindled fires of the Erebor forges.

Thranduil stood at the head of Thorin's casket and looked down at the dwarf before dressing the room, which had been quickly filled by members of each race. His eyes hovered over the Company, filled with sympathy, before he began to speak.

"Today, we will finally begin the long process of honoring our dead kith, kin, and respected allies. With the burial of Thorin Oakenshield and his nephews, Fili and Kili, we will see the end of the Line of Durin, but not the end of their memories." He swept is eyes over the crowd, and Bilbo looked around too. Many of the dwarves were teary-eyed, Ori was even sniffling, leaning on Dori for support.

"With them, with your fallen King, the Arkenstone will be sealed, so that its power will never again bewitch great men and women to do evil, and will never again call drakes to the Mountain of Erebor." Thranduil placed the stone on Thorin's chest, gingerly lifting his already clasped hands to cover the stone.

"Rest well in the Halls of your Forefathers, Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain."

There was silence after Thranduil spoke, and then deep voices filled the chamber. With a start, Bilbo recognized the tune they were humming, and felt his bones grow cold. He wanted to run away, wanted to hide and burrow himself somewhere where their voices couldn't reach him. It felt like the moment that would officially end everything, like this one Valar-damned song would truly cement the events of their quest in stone. By the _Gods_...

"Far over the Misty Mountains cold..."

Bilbo clenched his eyes shut, wanting to block everything out. Someone put an arm over his shoulder, but he couldn't open his eyes to see who it was because he was afraid he wouldn't be able to hold back his tear if he did.

"To dungeons deep, and caverns old..."

"We must away, ere' break of day..."

"To find our long forgotten gold."

The dwarves began to bang the hilts of their weapon and tools on the ground, followed by the men and elves doing the same, in tune with the song. The sounds echoed in the chamber, and Bilbo felt each thump thump thump in his bones.

"The pines were roaring," _thump_ "On the heights." _thump_

"The winds were moaning," _thump_ "In the night." _thump_

The halfling tried to wriggle away from his dwarves, his heart beating much too fast in his chest, and his head feeling far too light to be healthy. He needed air, he needed sunlight, he needed... He needed the pain to go away. He broke away from Bofur, having identified the dwarf holding him in his struggle, and tried to quickly slip past the rest of the gathered mourners. The voices of the dwarves followed him all the way out of the mountain, each deep note resonating in his chest and making him feel like he was going to explode. It was too much, far too much for simple Hobbit from the Shire.

_"The mountain smoked beneath the moon;_   
_The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom._   
_They fled their hall to dying fall_   
_Beneath his feet, beneath the moon._

_Far over Misty Mountains grim,_   
_To dungeons deep and caverns dim._   
_We must away, ere' break of day,_   
_To win our harps and gold from him."_


End file.
